


Plenty

by Toft



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Food Issues, Food Kink, M/M, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo and Sam and food, before, during and after the quest for the ring. Written for Kink Bingo round 5, for the challenge 'guro'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plenty

**Author's Note:**

> There's a tag for 'vore' on this story. I've tagged that no archive warnings apply because they don't cover this, but especially if you don't know what vore is, I would recommend reading the warnings on my dreamwidth post before reading this story: http://toft.dreamwidth.org/679875.html
> 
> Huge thanks to longwhitecoats and thingswithwings for their thoughtful and insightful betas! I hope that you feel I've done justice to what you felt this story could be :)
> 
> And thanks, as ever, to thingswithwings and eruthros, for running such an amazing challenge year after year. I've learned so much from you guys. <3

It was the midsummer before Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday, and the setting sun shone warm and golden over the inhabitants of the Shire, who basked beneath it in hard-won indolence. The wet April and dry May (so Sam's Gaffer maintained) had brought out a strawberry crop of remarkable proportions, and every hobbit, hobbit maiden, goodwife, dad, sprog, gander, licketisplit and babe who could hold a basket - and a good many who could not - had turned out to strip the bushes of the sweet red berries. Tubs of them were already macerating in sugar or steeping in home-brewed spirits, and a great many uncounted others had been consumed straight from the bushes, and now lay uneasily in over-full bellies. 

Such had been the scale of the harvest that the whole Shire seemed sleepy and sweet-smelling that evening. Young Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins lay on the grass outside of Bag End, not on top of the little knoll (for one did not lie on the roof of a hobbit hole) but on the gently sloping hillside down below, in a little dell where the grass grew so thick and springy that it was if the earth herself cradled them in her lap. That was the simile put forward by young Frodo Baggins, being brought to a poetical frame of mind by the heady mixture of strawberries, sunshine and a cooling draught in the Gaffer's kitchen as thanks for his labour; Samwise Gamgee, who was of a more pragmatical sort, was of the opinion that they were directly over the site of the old midden.

"Sam!" laughed Frodo, rolling over onto his stomach to look into his face. "You're so unromantic."

"I ain't," Sam replied automatically, a flush creeping into his cheeks. Frodo's nose was pinking from the sun - Sam ought to have made sure of his hat earlier, so he should - and his face seemed to glow in the falling sun, framed with slightly sweaty curls in a way that gave Sam a sort of pang, deep-down, like being hungry, only he was as stuffed with strawberries as he could be.

"Oh yes?" Frodo chuckled again, leaning closer - why did he seem to lean so close, this summer? It was playing havoc with Sam's nerves, that were a-fluttering and a-swimming all over. Lately, all of a sudden as it were, being caught by Frodo's frank blue gaze made Sam's insides flip-flop like a fish on a line. Perhaps it was his mind running away with him after a long, hard day this particular evening - or the sunshine, or the strawberries, or the Gaffer's ale - but it was on this evening in particular that Sam said to himself, as if completing the thought started months earlier, _you're hooked, Sam, my lad_. And as he thought it, gazing at Frodo's smile, his berry-stained mouth, so he was. 

But even there his mind was not finished with him, for it went on to suggest that for the fish that was Sam, there was a corresponding fisherman, that was Frodo; that Frodo had reached that line out to him intentional-like, trying to reel him in. The thought was such a shock that he only stared open-mouthed, and it was after a third repetition and a nudge to the shoulder that he said, "What's that, Master Frodo?"

"I said, I want to hear something romantic from you, Master Gamgee, to make up for your ruining this spot for me."

"Oh, there, now, you're trying to embarrass me," Sam stammered, still put out and off his mettle. "You know I'm no poet."

Frodo's blue, blue eyes shone, and Sam felt a swooping sensation, like rolling down a hill. 

"You can't wheedle your way out of it that way," Frodo laughed. "Come on, now. I know for a fact that you wrote poetry for Bella Tagglefoot no less than two years ago." 

In his outrage, Sam forgot his shyness for a moment. "Did that Meriadoc tell you that? I'll have his guts for garters!"

Amid his gale of laughter, Frodo rolled still closer, so that they were almost nestled together in the little patch of lush grass. His thigh and shoulder pressed easily against Sam's, hot and a little damp through their thin summer clothes. He wasn't sure what he'd do was the Gaffer to come around the hill, but there seemed nothing wrong about this, nothing wrong in Sam shifting so as to press against Frodo even more, to prop himself on his elbow so as to drink in the sight of him sprawled on the grass, the soft golden skin of his throat, and more, lower, in shadow where his shirt buttons were half undone. The sight of so much skin made his breath come short, and made him want things only half-thought-of until this moment, but now coming fast and sharp into his mind, so that his mouth fair watered.

Frodo's smile was lazy, but sweet for all that, like a strawberry just picked, ripe and warm from the sun, and his kiss was the same when Sam leaned forward to take it, sharp sweetness bursting into his mouth and heart.

"You look good enough to eat, so you do," Sam said, his voice low, after they broke apart to breathe. He instantly bit his lip, unable to believe his own ears, and Frodo's delighted laugh was different this time, a little huskier. His berry-stained mouth seemed pinker, and his cheeks more flushed.

"All right," he said breathlessly, "I'm listening."

"Look at you," murmured Sam, overcome. Then, at a loss for inspiration, he kissed Frodo again.

"You taste like strawberries," Frodo whispered. He had one hand worked up under Sam's shirt, sweaty palm pressed against his heart, sending electrical shivers racing across Sam's chest and arms.

"So do you," Sam said. In a rush of feeling, he blurted out, "I could eat you all up," then felt his face flush again, and hid his face in Frodo's shoulder.

In a moment, he was on his back and Frodo was lying atop him, with that deceptive speed that so often caught him by surprise - for all he was slight and small, underpuddin'd, as his Gaffer always said, Frodo could be as quick as an eel - and Sam's breath caught in his hammering chest as Frodo's warmth settled into Sam's body, becoming like part of him. Everywhere they touched felt good, better than sunshine, better than cool water at high noon of midsummer.

"Sam," said Frodo, more like a gasp, or a laugh, maybe, and this time it was as if neither of them had made the choice to begin but the kiss had happened upon them, like a storm. Frodo coaxed Sam's mouth open, and their tongues touched, and the hunger was upon him now, so that he rolled them again and grappled Frodo to him, thirsted for him, kissed his face and his jaw and the pale hollow of his throat. Frodo made a high, breathless noise, and Sam returned, biting by accident but then making an experiment of it again when Frodo moaned, a hitching sound that made Sam shudder. He sucked a pink, flushed oval onto Frodo's throat as Frodo writhed beneath him, and their bodies found a rhythm together until Frodo gasped and shuddered, clinging to him. When he realized what had happened and felt Frodo's exhalation vibrate against his lips, Sam groaned, thrust once against Frodo's leg and spent into his breeches.

Dazed, Sam slipped down onto the grass beside Frodo, and dimly felt Frodo brush the hair from his eyes. When he opened them, he smiled, then jerked back, appalled.

"Oh, look what I done to you!"

Frodo's entire throat was blotchy and flushed red. Sam bit his lip; his mouth tasted of salt and earth and the intangible, homey taste that was Frodo's alone, and he wanted it again.

"What?" frowned Frodo, then he touched his neck and winced, a curious expression crossing his face. 

"Did I hurt you?" Sam demanded, greatly distressed.

"No," Frodo said slowly, running his finger across the hot, tender places where Sam had bitten him. "No, it's... it's nice." His face cleared. "I liked it. I like it, Sam."

"What Mr Bilbo's going to say when he sees you I don't know," fretted Sam, ignoring him.

"I think I've had a touch of the sun," Frodo said firmly. "Heatrash." A smile played around his mouth, and that amazed look was back, or perhaps it had never left. "I think I should go to bed, actually, Sam. Do you want to come with me?"

"Well," said Sam, then, "Well," again, since he had come no further in his thinking. Frodo's smile was deepening to mischief again, and the unease that always sparked in Sam came this time with a sort of stirring, a current deep below that wasn't unpleasant at all.

Later, much later, when they paused to catch their breath amid their sharing of bodies and pleasure, more wonderful than anything Sam could have imagined, Frodo had said, laughing again (he laughed so much, in those days, Sam would remember later), "Sam, you're so - I thought you'd be - shy."

"Shy?" Sam had said, half abashed, half defiant. He looked down at Frodo, dishevelled and pleasure-sleepy and smiling, the marks from Sam's teeth all over him, and he felt a throb of that deep tug like again, now more like a fierce, purring satisfaction. He had done that, made Frodo look like that, and Frodo's taste was in his mouth. "How could I hold back, how could I be - when you're so -" 

_When you're so beautiful_ , he didn't say, nor _When I love you so much_ , but he did, later, many times, before the ring came and changed them for good and all. It would be a comfort to him, that he had told Frodo then, that there had been a time for them both when there were no shadows between them, when everything was light.

*

The scrubby waste of Gorgoroth slid up and sideways and onward before them, shingle and dust and rocky outcrops without a drop of water from one day to the next, and not so much as a blade of green. Sam had thought he'd had enough of water after the marshes with the stinging flies, but this was worse. Not because of the cold, dry air that cracked his lips, or the despair that clawed at his heart when they reached a dead end and had to retrace their steps, losing the work of hours or even days. What was worse was Frodo; the Ring was overcoming him, even Sam could see that now, although Frodo had tried with all his might to hide it. He was wasting away. 

Sam had gradually pilfered the heavier things from his pack, what little they had left, but he knew better than to think that he was carrying the heavier burden. Hunger was a dull, constant knot in his stomach now, his belt was down to its inmost notch, but Frodo's cheeks and eyes were hollow with something more than hunger. Sam watched with anxiety as their last supplies of lembas bread (dry and thick in their mouths without water to wash it down, but still welcome) dwindled to a single crumbling wedge, and he used every last bit of what craftiness the moon and his mother gave him to ensure that Frodo got more than his share. He was no Gandalf the Grey, though, and it was a while afore he realized that the rations were disappearing _less_ quick than they should. Starving as he must be, Frodo was sneaking half of his rations back into the pack when Sam wasn't looking. 

"Mr Frodo!" Sam cried, when he finally caught Frodo at it. Frodo withdrew his hand from the pack like it had burned him, guilt spreading across his face under a layer of dust. His other hand was where it always was, clutched at the base of his throat.

"I'm not hungry," he said. His voice was as cracked as his lips, full of dust and dryness.

"You are," says Sam desperately. "You just don't know it."

The darkness of the night was giving way to the half-light that passed for day in this hateful place, but the hollow where they'd spent the night was still in shadow. In the silence, the sound of nasty mutterings and scratchings among the rocks ahead drifted back to them. He shivered. 

"I'm sorry, Sam," Frodo whispered. His fingers were clenched white at his throat. When he raised his eyes, Sam had the eerie sense, as he so often did these past days, that Frodo was looking straight through him - that he could not really see him at all. It sent a sharp pang through him now that made him want to grind his teeth and tear at his hair, although he couldn't rightly say whether the feeling was sadness or fury. An impulse to touch pushed him stumbling towards Frodo, and Frodo shrank back. For a second, he saw his own hurt mirrored in Frodo's tight, white face.

"Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry," Frodo choked out. He reached out with his left hand, took Sam's and chafed it fretfully, and the sight of his thin wrist, barely more than bone, sent another blade deep into Sam's heart. 

He squeezed Frodo's fingers, rubbed them to warm them up and said, near tears, "What are we going to do with you, Frodo Baggins? When there's not even enough left of you to put in a pie."

Frodo's returning smile was an awful thing, and it cracked a little more of Sam's heart. 

"You could make a stew," he rasped. "Oh, Sam, don't cry."

Then Sam was in his arms, and he was in Sam's. Sam pressed his face hard into Frodo's collarbone, where the hand that held the Ring was cold against his cheek, and he willed himself not to cry, with little success, for all his eyes were far too dry for weeping.

"There's still enough of me, and all," he says, and Frodo took a rough breath that might have been a laugh against his ear. "If I could put me in a stew and feed you it, I would."

"Sméagol would like that," Frodo wheezed, "But I'm afraid he wouldn't leave much for me."

Sam had to smile at that, even if he couldn't muster a laugh just yet. It was a grim sort of jest, but it was a grim part of the world they were in, and if you couldn't hide from the worst of things, as his Gaffer always said, you could still laugh at it. He recovered the last chunk of lembas from the pack. It was really just a bag of crumbs, now, nothing solid left; Sam used a little of the precious water to mix some into a paste-like gruel, an unappetizing mess that made Frodo grimace, but when Sam raised the spoon to his cracked lips, he took it. Swallowing it seemed painful, even now it was moistened. Frodo hacked and coughed, so that Sam had to give him another trickle of water to help it down.

"I can't," croaked Frodo. "Sam, please."

"You have to," Sam said fiercely. He ploughed another furrow in the paste with the spoon and held it up, but Frodo turned his face away. Without clear intent, Sam put the food into his own mouth. It was like eating dust; even so, his aching stomach clawed at him to swallow, and he nearly did, but he held it in his cheek until it began to soften. In the meantime, he wetted a corner of his shirt-sleeve and wiped his finger, getting it as clean as he could, as Frodo watched, unblinking. Then Sam put his finger in his own mouth, and smeared some of the mess onto it. The air was cold on his wet skin when he drew it out. He touched Frodo's lower lip.

"Frodo."

Frodo took it into his mouth like a child, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked clumsily on Sam's finger, all teeth and tongue, and for a second there was a spark in his eyes that filled Sam with yearning, a memory of naked limbs intertwined, of heat and sweat.

"All right?" Sam said softly.

"Yes," Frodo whispered. "Thank you."

It was easier, the second time; Frodo had got the trick of it now, and he lapped the gruel off Sam's finger, then sucked harder, his eyes fluttering closed. He smiled, and Sam's throat hurt with the pain of it.

"You still taste the same," Frodo said, then, "I think I thought for a while that I was dead, and everything I ate tasted like dust because it was dust, and I was only dreaming that it was food. But you taste real, Sam. I didn't think I could still taste." 

Sam was unable to find the words, so he put more lembas into his mouth to chew on instead. It was only a trick of the mind, Sam knew, but he thought he could see Frodo filling out as he ate, his face becoming less pinched.

After the last mouthful, Frodo held Sam's finger against his tongue for a while, between his teeth. It occurred to Sam that Frodo might bite down, that some strangeness of the ring might come over him of a sudden and bone would crunch and blood would flow, but at the thought a sort of peace settled over him. At least he'd be of some use, then.

As if the thought had jumped from one to the other of them, Frodo pulled away sharply, leaving Sam's finger warm and startlingly light-coloured against the rest of his hand. Then he said, low and fast, "I think about it, Sam. What you would do with my body. I sometimes think that you could at least eat me and get back, and -"

"Frodo!" Sam gasped.

"No, no, listen," Frodo rambled, and his eyes were fever-bright. "I'm the last of our supplies, Sam, if this goes wrong, if I don't survive - you can at least get back, Sam, you must promise me -"

"No!"

Sam seized Frodo's hand, and Frodo stared at his own arm.

"How far would you get on that, I wonder?"

"You're still here," Sam said, scarcely knowing what he meant by it, but feeling it was important, more important than anything. He pinched Frodo's wrist, and the skin was so loose it came easy into a fold, nothing beneath it but bone. "Frodo. You _are_. I'm not giving up on you."

Frodo raised his eyes to Sam's.

"I decide when I eat you," Sam said. He was on new ground all of a sudden, familiar from a world ago, for all it meant something different now. "And I'll fatten you up good and proper first."

Frodo blinked. A sort of shiver seemed to go through him, like an awakening. Emboldened, Sam touched his cheek with his spit-cleaned finger, then pinched it a little, like a farmer testing a piglet at market. He tutted.

"No good," he said, "No good at all. The Gaffer'd have a fit if I made a good Gamgee stew with such a bag of bones, and you with not enough fat on you to so much as grease the pan. So none of your nonsense, Mr. Frodo. Who did Gandalf put in charge of the stores?"

The shadow of a smile reached Frodo's eyes. "You, Sam." He seemed to be standing a little straighter, as if Sam were lifting a weight from his shoulders. It was like feeling in the dark, this chancing at what to say, but Sam felt the rightness of it in his belly, as if the words coming from his mouth had been sitting there for some time, wanting to be said.

"That's right. So if I say you're not fit to eat yet, then that's so. But do as I say, and I'll feed you up good and proper." He forced himself to meet Frodo's eyes, and his blood thrilled strangely. "Then we'll see."

It had begun as a jest, sure enough, but it felt now like a promise, real and tangible, and it rested in the air between them. What it meant, Sam couldn't say, but he needed it, he knew, sure as he needed air and water and victuals, and Frodo needed it too. It bound them together, sure as blood. And how would they live through this, else?

"All right," Frodo said. His voice was a little husky, and there was a life to his eyes that had not been there before. He smiled again, surer this time. "What would I do without you to look after me, Sam?"

"You wouldn't," Sam choked out, and reached out to grip Frodo's hand with his own. "Because I'd never not be there."

Their fingers tangled together, one band of fair skin against nine crusted with dirt, and hand-in-hand they stumbled on forward across the endless plain.

*

They came back, after all. They came back, and if the Shire was not as they remembered when they arrived, Sam's use of the last of Galadriel's gifts ensured a swift recovery. The year of fourteen twenty in Shire reckoning was the greatest harvest in living memory, and Sam spent it with moist, rich earth under his fingernails and the smell of growth in his nostrils. The young trees around Hobbiton and Bywater stretched out their tender leaves so eagerly, Sam thought to himself that they must know what they had escaped. 

He himself was slowly beginning to forget. He was that busy with the visitors and the stories and the tending to the trees of the Shire that he scarce had a chance to think from one day to the next, but many a time, in the privacy of his garden at Bag End, he would lose hours to marvelling at an apple blossom, or the gentle curls of the runner beans. Frodo would wake on a gasp next to him from dreams of shadows and fire, and they would cling together in the night until Sam could get up the nerve to light a candle. Less often, as Frodo filled out and gained in strength, Sam would have to bite down sharp words to any young hobbit he saw tossing away any perfectly good crusts of bread. Frodo once found him close to tears after burning the soup and ruining it; he smiled, but it was a sad smile, quiet-like.

"It's only soup, Sam," he said, and pulled him close. Sam muffled his face against Frodo's shoulder - more than skin and bone now, almost comfy to rest on - and held on to him.

"Can't think what's come over me," he muttered.

"I can," Frodo said, and stroked his hair. "But it's over, Sam. We'll never be hungry again. You've made sure of that."

They went to the pantry hand-in-hand; there was fresh-baked nut-bread, brought over by Tom Cotton that morning, and cheese, and butter wrapped in paper, and crumpets, half a sausage, several cucumbers from the garden, and for afters, rasberries from the bushes lining the road, and of course they did not go hungry that day, nor the next. 

Such episodes became less frequent as the summer ripened into autumn, and Sam was kept busy with apple-picking, with making cherry, gooseberry and plum preserves, with bagging nuts and pickling the endless cucumbers that the garden kept producing well into late summer. He worked the Gaffer's meat-grinder for the sausages that would be hung in the old shed, and sweet Rosie Cotton came up to help with the jam in exchange for half the load. Bag End was always warm, and had a good, homey smell of fruit, bread and spices, and Sam would watch happily as Frodo shuffled from his desk to the table and tucked in to their stews and fruit pies. 

They shared a bed now without question, as they had done since Ithilien, and gradually they began to rediscover each other's bodies, driven at first by a want to find again what was lost, then by a deep wonder, like Sam's awe at the growth that sprang from the earth under his hands. It was different from their first flush of love, of course, that had been in a different age. There were scars and callouses where before had been smooth skin, and there were shadows where there had been none before. The darkness they had been through had clung them both, Frodo more than Sam, and some of the games they had used to play had changed, had come to mean something different, something more essential, tempered by the fire they'd been through.

That first September, Frodo became paler and quieter as the weeks went on, and took to wearing a woolen shawl at his desk. On the first Wednesday of the month, Sam left for the Bywater market early in the morning; when he returned late in the afternoon, he found that Frodo had not left his bed. He fussed, propped Frodo up with pillows and fed him some broth and bread, then made to leave him to let him rest, but Frodo said, "Don't leave, Sam," and then he could not. 

He curled up behind Frodo under the blankets wound his arms about him, and as he pressed him close, he spread one palm over the place on his shoulder where the splintering scar throbbed.

"It's cold!" he blurted out.

"It was a cold blade," Frodo said, and pressed back against Sam, huddling into him. "It will never really heal."

"I thought you were feeling better," Sam said, dismayed.

"I was," said Frodo. "I am. You've taken such good care of me. But as the days get shorter, things seem darker inside as well as out, do you see? And it is the sixth of October today."

"Oh, what a fool I am," said Sam. "And there I went and left you -"

"No, Sam, no, it isn't - you weren't to know," Frodo said, and Sam held him closer, and they were silent for a while.

"It's just," Frodo whispered, "sometimes I feel as if I am turning to shadow."

"You aren't," Sam said fiercely. "You won't. I won't let you."

Frodo turned slightly on the pillow to look at him, wincing as the movement twisted his shoulder. His hand sought Sam's under the covers, and pressed it flat across his belly.

"Do you want to -" Sam said, hesitant.

"No," said Frodo. "No, not tonight. But - Sam -" 

He licked his dry lips, and Sam reminded himself to get some more of the beeswax salve that Sally Proudfoot made. Then he said, all fast and jumbled together, "Would you tell me your bedtime story again?"

A strange feeling turned over in Sam's stomach, like love, or fear, but truly it was like neither. It wasn't like wanting to touch, or be touched by Frodo in love - it was deeper, somehow, deeper even than the sharpest hunger pangs they'd felt in Mordor, when he would have given anything for a bit of broth or an apple, when a treacherous part of his mind saw everything living as so much fat, meat and marrow. He bit his lip, and fell silent. 

It was the first time Frodo had asked this of him. Once before, very late at night after they'd been loving, Frodo had asked Sam what he was thinking, and, half-dreaming and lost in the feel and taste of him, Sam had told him the truth. Frodo had been quiet a while as Sam slowly woke up to what he had said, then Frodo had called it a bedtime story, and fallen asleep, sure enough, or pretended to. The next day, Sam had scarcely been able to look him in the face, shocked, almost sick at the thoughts he'd had hiding inside him, for all Frodo hadn't seemed to mind. He'd half-hoped Frodo had forgotten. Now he was on unsure ground, and could not find his way.

"You needn't, you know, Sam," Frodo said at last, quietly. "If you don't want to -"

"No!" Sam blurted out. "That is, I do. Want to. It's just finding where to start, if you take my meaning."

"All right," Frodo murmured. He took Sam's hand and pulled it down, down, and Sam caught his breath, but Frodo pressed it to his thigh.

"Here. What would you do with this?"

His voice was light, but sure. His want pressed past his shame, and Sam curled his fingers around Frodo's leg, feeling its solidity, its weight. "Roasting, I reckon," he whispered. Frodo nestled back against him, like a reward, and Sam relaxed a little.

"Oh yes?"

"I'd beg some goose fat from Goodwife Mayberry, and rub in salt first, for the crackling."

"Mm?"

"Then baste you good and proper," Sam finished. "A nice roast joint with roast potatoes, and sage-and-onion stuffing, and some of my runner beans, and gravy."

"Mm. And this?"

He pulled Sam's hand to his shoulder. Sam ran his fingertips over the splintered ridges of the scar on Frodo's shoulder, then pinched the flesh where it wouldn't hurt and poked it a little, for show, like, and Frodo released a breath like a laugh. Sam felt his mouth curve into a smile in response, despite the beating of his heart.

"Even you can't do much with that, Sam, my boy."

There was a note in his voice that cut Sam to the bone, but he didn't let it show. He rubbed thoughtfully, dug his thumb into the stiff place under Frodo's shoulderblade which always made him sigh.

"Stew," he pronounced. "A good, warming stew for a cold day like my nana used to make, with turnips and carrots. Sage, for seasoning." 

"Wouldn't it be a little tough?" Frodo murmured.

"Bless you, Mr Frodo," Sam said, shocked out of intimacy. "The stewing makes it tender. Nothing better for a hard bit of muscle than a hot bath, dead or alive, as my nana used to say."

"That sounds like her." Sam could hear the smile in Frodo's voice.

More confidently, now, Sam allowed his hand to travel over Frodo's body. Funny, it was, how it felt almost like touching his own body, more, like Frodo was his to protect and cherish. To take. He shivered.

"Broad beans," he whispered, pressing his palm against Frodo's side. "I'd make a steak and kidney pie with all this, with boiled beans, and good, thick, brown pastry you could rest one of your heavy books on and it wouldn't crack."

"Yes," sighed Frodo. "Are the broad beans the ones that grow at the east end of your garden? With the white flowers that the butterflies like?"

"That's right, and don't I wish they'd keep their nasty caterpillars off my good beans."

Frodo tugged Sam's hand up again, this time to cup his chin.

"What about here?"

Sam kissed his jaw, then his nose. "Nothing like a nice bit of cheek. I'd poach it in milk first, then roll it in breadcrumbs and fry it for breakfast."

Frodo's eyes were very clear, his eyebrows raised. "My tongue?" he said.

Sam kissed his creased forehead. "With bacon," he said, and Frodo's eyes fluttered closed. Sam kissed them too.

Then Sam's hand was being tugged down, down again, and he didn't gather where it was headed until his palm was pressed firmly over Frodo's sweetmeats, which he could feel through his pajama-bottoms, nestling warm and vulnerable. A powerful tremor ran through him, and he felt his mouth go dry, so that he had to lick his lips again a few times to get out the words.

"Now, they're special," he began, then had to try again. "They're special. I'd look after them, scald and skin them when they're nice and fresh, then I'd dip them in nice melted butter, and fry them up with onions and breadcrumbs, and mayhap some sage from the garden. I wouldn't have nothing else with them. I wouldn't share, neither. They're mine."

He kissed Frodo's neck, wanting to hide his face, but Frodo only sighed again, and turned towards Sam like a plant towards the sun.

"I wouldn't waste nothing," he whispered, daring more, and traced a path downward with his lips and hands. "Not of a tasty bit like you. I'd save your bones for marrow and suck it out, nice and juicy. Lungs, liver, heart, I'd use Joe Cotton's recipe for potted meat. All kinds of spices, he uses, he goes all the way to the Prancing Pony to meet a fellow from the south who sells 'em. I'd go with him, for you."

He rubbed Frodo's stomach, over his bellybutton. Frodo smiled, and yawned. _It truly is like a bedtime story_ , Sam thought, wondering at the strange sort of peace blooming in them both.

"All them tubes in your insides, just here, we'd wash them until you could see right through them, and my gaffer'd use them for sausage linings," he murmured. "All the other bits we couldn't use for roasting or stewing or potting, I'd grind them up for the Gaffer's sausages."

Frodo's forehead, which had been smoothing out, creased up again. "I don't think I'd like being hung up in the dark, Sam."

"I wouldn't wrap you up and store you like that nasty spider, to suck you dry." Sam whispered fiercely into Frodo's ear, now. A remembered pang lanced through him, but it was nought but an echo, a twinge from an old wound. "I'd smoke you up good and proper for two days, and wouldn't I come in and check on you every day to make sure you were curing nicely? Then you'd come into the kitchen, just over the table, where I could keep an eye on you."

Frodo's forehead cleared. "That doesn't sound so bad," he said. He nestled closer. They were curled together, now, Frodo's head tucked under Sam's chin. 

"You're so warm," Frodo whispered. "I wish I could live inside you, Sam. You soak up all the summer sun and glow all through the winter."

"I'd be warm because of you. You'd be stored up in my pots and hanging on my hooks, so I could eat you bit by bit by the fire, and I'd always be able to make a nice bit of broth on a cold day. Come the first harvest, there wouldn't be a scrap of you left."

"You'd keep me very safe, I'm sure." There was a smile in Frodo's voice, a sleepy one, and it eased something tight in Sam's heart. Frodo slid his hand up under Sam's jumper, to rest against his belly.

"Nowhere safer than in there," Sam murmured. "There ain't no key, and you could live inside me forever more."

He had run short of words, and quiet lay over them like another blanket. Dusk had come and gone, and the room was lit only by the low embers of the fire, which popped and crackled occasionally, a comfortable sort of sound. Sam began to wonder if Frodo had fallen asleep, but then his voice drifted up through the darkness.

"I don't know why I - why I like this," he said. "Sometimes I feel as if I am all in pieces. Does it make sense that when you pretend to me that I'm really in pieces, I feel more whole? Or rather, I feel as if I could be made whole, if I were immersed in you. You're like a crucible, Sam; you could burn all the shadows out of me and make me clean again. I should like to be turned into - into nothing. Into warmth in your blood, and night soil for the garden. It seems so peaceful."

His hand tightened around Sam's, and Sam held him close, at a loss for what to say.

"It's odd to think that the flames of Mount Doom and the fire in your kitchen stove are the same thing, at their heart."

"You're thinking of that sneak, aren't you?"

"Gollum. Yes. I'd have roasted with him, if it weren't for you."

"He got what he deserved."

"Yes," whispered Frodo. "I'm afraid that I will, too."

"Don't," said Sam thickly, "Don't," and he bent to kiss Frodo's neck again, to bite a little. Frodo gripped his shoulder and squeezed it, forcing Sam to look at him. "I will never be truly home," he said. "I thought I could come back to the Shire. But it's too much, Sam. Or not enough. I'm not - I will always have that shadow inside me, and I'm afraid that it doesn't belong here."

His eyes were wide, and for a moment, they caught the reflection from the fireplace, and it was as if they were back on Mount Doom, gripped by that terrible fear.

"If that's so, then I don't belong here anymore neither," Sam said, his heart in his throat. "It's in me too. Why do you think I, I -" he stammered, catching Frodo's eye, but pressed on, "I won't be afraid of you, Frodo. Never. Why, it's you what ought to be afeared of me."

"What? Why, Sam, for goodness's sake?"

He hid his face in Frodo's curls and blurted out, "What's in my head. The things I say to you. I shouldn't ought to be thinking those things."

Frodo tugged back, forcing Sam to look at him. Sam tried to meet his searching gaze, but had to drop his eyes, his face aflame.

"But Sam," Frodo said weakly, "I thought - I thought you were only indulging me." 

Unable to speak, then, Sam took his hand and kissed the poor stump of his finger, let his teeth graze against it. Frodo caught his breath and looked clear into Sam's eyes, and Sam had the strangest feeling that he could see everything, all the places inside his heart that had been cut, that had scarred and healed unwhole.

"You've been growing and cooking food every second of the day since we returned," Frodo said slowly, "but it hasn't helped altogether, has it?"

Sam shook his head, wordless.

"I don't fear you, Sam."

Sam's eyes stang, suddenly, and he pressed his face into Frodo's shoulder to hide it. Frodo kissed his forehead, his cheek.

"It seems wrong to say it," Frodo said, "But I'm glad. You've been so - I thought I was alone. I thought - I thought of leaving the Shire."

"No!" gasped Sam.

"I won't," Frodo choked out, and held fast to him. "It hurts, but I can bear it, Sam. I will bear it, if you will. I won't leave you alone." They clung to each other, and gradually the tide that had swept over them receded, and they were left calm and washed clean. Frodo stroked Sam's face.

"I'd like to go back into the land," he whispered. "I'd like to be in your plants, to feel the sun on me, and think of nothing but rain and the wind and your hands. I imagine that's how your trees must feel."

"Maybe next spring I'll teach you to garden," Sam said. "Come outside with me."

"All right," said Frodo. "I think perhaps I'd like that. And, Sam -" he took Sam's hand. "Perhaps you could stay in sometimes with me. I've been a little lonely, I think."

"All right," murmured Sam, abashed. Frodo leaned close, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

"We needn't ever go hungry again," he said. "Unless we want to."

They curled together under the blankets in a ball of warmth. Eventually, the fire died down in the grate. There was darkness between them and around them, but Sam imagined that they were breathing it out and in, that they could take it inside themselves and pass it out again, and make it no more dangerous than their own souls.


End file.
